


to the Limonium

by seventeensteps



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:11:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4841957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventeensteps/pseuds/seventeensteps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Elliot runs a flower shop.</p>
<p>translated into <a href="https://ficbook.net/readfic/4805692">Русский</a> by <a href="https://ficbook.net/authors/1535705">stacie_di</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
(beautiful cover by the amazing [Nat](https://twitter.com/nksnat137). Thank you so much for this wonderful art T_T x)

 

  

It’s that man again. His name is Tyrell Wellick. Of course I know his name. _The_ Tyrell Wellick, Senior Vice President of Technology at Evil Corp. Rumor has it he’s basically running the tech department himself. Apparently his boss is a stupid, arrogant prick who owns a Blackberry and thinks it’s the most suitable phone for the CTO of Evil Corp. Nothing more to say, really.  
  
Well, let’s get back to Tyrell Wellick. It’s not like I has anything to do with that man. We’re from different worlds. The man wears blue. I wear black. The man’s practically radiating… _princeliness_ everywhere he goes – you get the feeling that he’s some Northern European prince just by looking at him. It’s not about his clothes. It’s in his eyes, his hair, his facial expressions, how he holds himself. That ‘prince’ thing is all him. While all I ever was and will ever be is an anti-social junkie who runs a flower shop.  
  
Oh, yes, I do run a flower shop, but it’s not like I have a passion in them or anything. It was my dad’s, and when he died, the ownership was transferred to me. And I keep it because I’m good at this. This flower-selling thing. I know what each flower means (daisy: innocence, violet: modesty), what should they look like together (daisy and lavender would look better together than daisy and violet), what kind of bouquets are right for each person (a grandpa who comes in here to look for some flowers for his love would appreciate a bouquet of peonies than petunias). I get them. The flowers. The people.  
  
And there he is, Tyrell Wellick. A total mystery. I thought I get him at first. Probably a typical gentleman-on-the-outside-snob-on-the-inside kind of guy. He looks like a proper, good man, but his smile is so fake. I arranged him a big bouquet of roses and carnations. (For his wife, as far as I could tell by the white gold band on his left ring finger.) He thanked me, a tight smile pasted there on his princely features. I nodded jerkily at the cash register, handing him his changes, but in his silky voice he said coolly, “keep it,” before turning back and walked out the door like the changes didn’t mean anything. It probably didn’t. He gave me a hundred dollar bill. Snobbish prick.  
  
But then Tyrell Wellick came back here again a week later, a week after that, and a week after that. He’s been coming back here every week for the last two months and my understanding of him is getting less and less certain. For three weeks, he just requested for _‘whatever you think is appropriate’_ without saying much or asking for anything else, but then on the fourth week, he started requesting. Red carnations and purple statices and asters and hydrangeas and daffodils. I think he’s having a mistress. Or trying to make up with his wife. Either way, it’s just weird to be buying a bouquet of flowers every week for two months. People only buy flowers on special occasions or when they want something. Is his partner that hard to please?   
  
Well, actually that doesn’t concern me at all so I should stop thinking about whether he’s having a lot of mistresses or a very dramatic, demanding wife. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he pays good money and comes here every week. That’s it.   
  
But sometimes he lost his usually cool demeanor a bit while coming into the shop. He would look exhausted, like he hadn’t slept for years, like something was weighing him down, but would always put that fake smile on his face. It didn’t reach his eyes and I hate it.  
  
There’s that smile again while he’s walking toward me.  
  
“Yellow zinnias, please,” he says politely.  
  
I fucking hate that smile. “Sure.”  
  
He stands there in silence while I go about the shop grabbing and cutting some yellow zinnias then spray some water onto those flowers and wrap them carefully with a piece of kraft and a piece of paper rope.  
  
He pays for it with a hundred dollar bill as usual. I stop offering him changes at this point. No point trying to achieve something by doing things that yield the same unsatisfactory results over and over. But before he turns back like he used to, he says abruptly, “What’s your name?”  
  
I look at him. A long pause, and then, “Elliot.”  
  
Oh. The fake ass smile is gone. Shit. Instead, he just… smiles, and says, “Bonsoir, Elliot.”  
  
“Good evening,” I respond automatically.  
  
He nods, turns around, and walks out the door, movements ever graceful.  
  
There was something off about that smile.  
  
And that night I dream about Tyrell Wellick.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let me make this very clear: Tyrell Wellick is not my prince.

I was sleeping, and then I was woken up by a soft touch on my nose.

“Mmm.” I buried my face further into the warmth beside me. That warmth chuckled, then curled tightly around me.

It made me feel safe. ‘Safe’. That word left a weird taste in my mouth. ‘Safe’ is not a familiar feeling with me. I usually feel uncomfortable. Invaded. Cornered. Even lonely. Sometimes, on a particularly good day, ‘untroubled’ is the word I’d go for. _‘Safe’_ though? ‘Safe’ doesn’t happen so often.

But. Somehow. This ‘warmth’ wrapping tightly around me made me feel safe. Protected. Cared for. L-

The warmth moved. Away. My chest constricted. So it was a mistake after all. Okay. That was all right. I could totally deal with that-

“Bonjour,” a voice calmed me. Fingers carded through my short hair soothingly.

I blinked up sleepily at the man above me. He smiled. I liked his smile. He usually didn’t smile like that. But that was fine. I liked to think that it meant the smile he gave me was a special one.

“Good morning-”

My phone screams indignantly at me with a series of loud, annoying rings, indicating ‘6.00AM’. I groan, then grab it and slide the alarm off. There’re also a couple notifications on the screen. I slide them away, too, before dropping the phone onto the space next to me on the bed. I turn and look at it.

Well. Shit.

I woke up with a ‘T-’ on my lips.

 

Shit. 

 

\--

 

The bell at the front door rings.

“Good morning.”

“Hey.” It’s Darlene. She works here sometimes when she feels like it. I haven’t seen her in a while. She glides up to the counter. “Any deliveries?”

I look up from the mauve carnations I’m trying and failing to cut and arrange into a proper bouquet. She’s looking at me expectantly. “Your other jobs not available today?”

“No. Now give me the list.” She holds her right hand out in front of me, palm up. I consider it, then take today’s delivery list out and give it to her.

“Great.” She sweeps her eyelined gray eyes over it quickly, folds it, then puts the little folded piece of paper into her right jacket pocket, looking around. “Your prince’s not here today?”

“He’s not my prince,” I say, picking the poor carnations up and thrust them into a slender black ceramic vase standing alone on the counter, “and no, I don’t think so.”

“Okay, princess,” she sings, while making a face that says ‘whatever you want to tell yourself, Elliot’ and walking backward expertly around rows of camellias and poppies and forsythias. “See you after work!” She calls before slipping out of the shop.

Now.

Let me make this very clear: Tyrell Wellick is not my prince. He may look like a prince, I’d give him that, but he’s certainly not _mine_. That precious band on his left ring finger can be a pretty good testament to that fact.

The memory of last night’s dream flashes across my mind. Shit. I don’t know how that happened. It shouldn’t. It really shouldn’t. Tyrell Wellick belongs to someone else. Tyrell Wellick means nothing to me. Tyrell Wellick is just a regular customer that comes here every week to buy some flowers for his partner.

I feel a bit better. Maybe.

The front door’s bell rings, indicating a customer. I look up. _What in the fuc-_

“Bonjour, Elliot.” That sounds too familiar.

“Good morning, Mr. Wellick.” This stain on the counter suddenly needs an urgent cleaning. I’m totally not refusing to look at him. The appearance of the shop helps with the sales. That sounds like something Darlene might have said a long time ago.

“Just call me Tyrell.” He doesn’t even sound surprise that I know his name. He sounds… pleased.

Why is he here today? “Ugh. What flowers would you like today, Mr. Wellick?” My eyes are still focused on this dark stain on the counter. I wonder what I should clean it with.

“Please, call me Tyrell.” That soft voice sounds like its origin has moved even closer to my ears. My own ears that are quite unreasonably heating up right now.

I risk a glance up.

I shouldn’t.

His smiling face is right there ten inches from my face. He’s watching me from under his blond lashes because he’s currently leaning down over the space next to my cash register, arms folded in front of him on the counter. His deep set ocean blue eyes under the shop’s dimmed fluorescent light are so distracting. A smell of a refreshing ocean breeze hits my nose. I need to move away.

“What flowers would you like today… Tyrell.”

He looks at me, smiling, not those fake smiles, and leans in even closer, “white lilies, please.”

I jerk away and almost run past him to the lilies near the front of the shop, and arrange him a normal hand-tied bouquet as per usual. I mess up the tying process a couple of times but he doesn’t say anything.

After I finish with the bouquet, he takes it carefully and puts a hundred dollar bill on the counter. “Thank you, Elliot.”

I glance down at the crisp rectangular piece of paper. Looking back up, I open the cash register and take out two twenty dollar bills. “Take your changes.”

He regards me with an unreadable glint in his eyes. A small tug at the corner of his mouth.

I keep looking at his light ocean blues.

“Thank you, Elliot.” He takes the creased bills.

“Thank you, Mr. Well-” He tilts his head a bit to the side, two fingers at the shell of his ear. “Tyrell,” I correct myself.

Tyrell Wellick smiles, his eyes softened. “See you,” he says, before turning around and walking out of the shop.

 

I need some morphine.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wonder what I’m doing here.

I wonder what I’m doing here.

My ears are ringing with the sound of the booming bass in this enclosed area. I shift in my stool every time any sweaty limb comes near me but I can’t avoid all of them. This place is nasty.

Darlene must have seen the disgust on my face. “Come on, Elliot! Live a little!” She yells over the loud trashy remix and pushes a tumbler my way. “Your prince won’t know you’re here!”

“He’s not my prince,” I say, eyeing the bright greenish-red liquid warily, “and this doesn’t concern him in any way.”

“Ooooh,” she feigns surprise, “rebellious, aren’t you?” When she sees that I’m not going to drink that thing, she shrugs, “your loss,” then grabs the tumbler and downs the whole thing. Jesus. She squints and blinks a few times like someone just hit her in the head with a brick. “Whooooooo!” Darlene shouts, then slides down the stool and into the maze of people moving jerkily on the dance floor.

I need to go. Darlene can totally enjoy the rest of tonight with that girl who’s shoving her breasts into her face. I pull my hood up and shove my hands in the pockets, and with eyes focused on the club’s door, work my way through the crowd as discreetly as I can.

Only two more steps and I’m out the door.

“Heeey, where’re you going?” A low voice slurs at me and a thick hand lands on my left shoulder.

I don’t even spare the inebriated man a glance and twist away. That hand comes back. I lift my hand up and try to shove it off. It won’t budge. He then squeezes my shoulder forcefully until it starts to hurt. Fuck. I look up at its owner.

“Finally looking at me,” the man leers. His other hand reaches up to push my hood off, “aren’t you interesting?”

Now I know he’s really drunk because no one in their sober mind would ever say I am interesting. I need to find a way to extract myself from this stupid situation as soon as I can. “Leave me alone.”

A wrong fucking thing to say.

He grips my shoulder even harder and presses closer into my personal space. I can’t help the useless effort of trying to pull away. This man reeks of liquor and sweat and smoke. It’s revolting. I don’t even want to know where he’s been or when was the last time he took a shower.

“I like that look on your face,” he says suddenly, and latches his mouth onto my neck. _Jesusfuckingchri-_ I knee him in the groin and, not caring about my now-probably-bruised shoulder, twist away as hard as I can and run out of the shop into the cool air of the outside world. I hear a voice shouting behind me but I tell my legs to keep going.

 

I don’t stop running until my apartment door is at my back.

 

\--

 

Darlene calls. I stare at her name and let it ring until all I can here is nothing.

 

\--

 

I wake up with a pounding _thump thump thump_ in one side of my head.

Throwing the blanket to the side, I sit up, wince at the sharp throb in my shoulder, and try not to think about why it hurts. I fish out a bottle of ibuprofen and take two of it. I’m now ready for another shitty day.

I trudge past a bathroom mirror and see a red patch blooming around my neck. I must’ve scrubbed it a little bit too hard yesterday. Never mind. I don’t care. People come to my shop just to buy flowers anyway.

I pull the hood up and over my head, thrust my hands into the pockets, and walk the eight blocks it takes to reach the shop, ignoring every wondering glance. The pounding in my head won’t relent. I wish today just ended already. And maybe everything after that, too.

It's a slow day. And as if to make everything worse, It’s a slow, shitty day. Not many customers. Only one delivery. I call Shayla to come in and pick it up. She keeps looking at my neck but she also keeps her mouth shut about it. Bless her.

I also happened to have two shitty customers today. One thought mistletoes bloomed in the middle of fucking spring and another insisted she needed three baskets of acorns for her lovely garden. I sent them both away with as much politeness as I could muster in the paraphrase of ‘fuck you’.

And to answer everyone’s question: there’s no Tyrell Wellick today. That may be a good thing because I don’t think I can handle him and how he make me feel right now.

 

Still, I kept looking up every time I heard the ringing of the bell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I just want to say thank you for reading this fic, and to every kudos and comment. If you see any mistakes, please feel free to kindly point them out. Comments are very welcome. See ya! :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rescue, fortunately, comes at a little after three in the form of a psycho-looking Darlene.

Hey.

I’ve been looking at my dingy ceiling for the past three hours. I ran out of sleeping pill two nights ago. So now I’m stuck here, lying in bed and staring at my stained ceiling until sleep decides to have some mercy and take me with it. I need to sleep, but my brain won’t shut up. It keeps jumping from one thought to another and then back and to another again, like a never-ending cycle.

For example, a few seconds ago, my mind was filled with calming glacier and golden sky; now it’s replaced with a nauseating combination of flashing lights and intrusive touches. My hand comes up and rubs harshly at my throat. I have to remind myself to stop doing that. The last time I stood in front of a mirror, my neck was full of distinct red scratches, especially on one side of it. My neck feels raw, but I still can’t get rid of the urge to claw my skin off.

I turn on my side and lie there, but after a couple more minutes of being painfully awake, decide to sit up and that I’d better do something useful instead of just lying in bed if sleep’s not going to come.

I get dressed and get to work.

 

\--

 

I end up sleeping on a chair behind the shop’s counter and wake up with an ache in my neck when I hear the first customer come in. Gideon is a regular. And by that, I mean the older man comes in here and buys a bouquet of blue hyacinths every spring. He told me on the first visit that they were for his husband. “He’d always loved this heartbreaking thing when he was still alive,” Gideon used to say. “Why is it heartbreaking?” I asked, and he told me the story of Apollo and Hyacinthus, the god’s lover who was killed by his own hands, albeit unintentionally. The god was devastated, of course, and so in memory of his love, Apollo turned him into the beautiful hyacinth.

I blinked at him, never knowing this myth before. After wrapping the bouquet loosely with a piece of kraft paper, I gave it to him and said, “in flowers language, it means _constancy_.”

Gideon seemed surprised, probably not expecting me to tell him that, but then he smiled, his eyes a bit misty. “Thank you, Elliot.”

Gideon became one of shop’s regulars after that.

I snap out of my musing when Gideon greets me. “Good morning,” I respond, smiling faintly at him. “The same?”

“The same,” he replies. It was probably just for manners’ sake at this point; I wasn’t expecting him to replace the hyacinths with something else when I asked him that.

“How’s everything, Elliot?”

“Good, I guess,” I lie. I haven’t slept properly for two days and feel like somebody’s following me, but saying the truth means answering more questions I don’t want to answer. Sorry Gideon.

He takes the answer I gave him happily though, and with the flowers in his arm, he places some bills on the counter. “Good. That’s great. I’m happy for you, Elliot. You’re a good guy.”

I poke at the cash register a couple of times and take out his change, then glance up at him. “Thank you, Gideon.”

“Yeah,” he smiles, one arm outstretched toward me. I move away instinctively. “Oh, um, sorry. I forget. Be good, Elliot.” And with that, he turns and strides out of the shop purposefully.

I wish he hadn’t looked that sad. Gideon once showed me the photo of him and his husband. They were smiling brightly at the camera, undisturbed by the oncoming disaster in the form of brain tumor. Losing someone like that must have been really painful, not that I would know.

The day progresses rather quickly after Gideon. Either the man didn’t notice my neck or he just chose to be quiet about it. Whichever one it was, I’m grateful for not having to answer the question. However, it seems that the other customers have altogether agreed to terrorize me with questions.

Rescue, fortunately, comes at a little after three in the form of a psycho-looking Darlene. She storms through the shop and then comes to a stop in front of me. The only two customers in the shop are looking at her. One ogles shamelessly and the other stares at her like she just killed some babies. She doesn’t give one shit about both of them. She’s looking at me. “Where were you?” She demands.

“What?” I said without lifting my face from the cluster of tulips on the counter. I know exactly what she’s talking about. I’m just too weary to talk or even _think_ about it.

“Elliot.”

I ignore her.

“I don’t deserve this. _Elliot._ ” I raise my head at that tone. She sounds almost apologetic. “I won’t say sorry because I don’t know what I could’ve possibly done wrong.”

She’s right actually. It’s not her fault. I should’ve known to stay at home, but I can’t help being bitter at her. “What do you want, Darlene?”

She sighs, and then probably notices the red marks all over my neck because her eyebrows shoot up dramatically and nearly touch her hairline. “ _Jesus_. Who did that to you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I will kill them.”

“No, you won’t. Now, why are you here?” I level her with a look.

“Fuck.” Her eyes are still glued to my neck, one hand in her burnt umber hair.

“ _Darlene._ ” Now it’s me using that tone with her. I can still hear her muttering something to herself, but finally her eyes snap up at mine.

“Okay. Ugh. I came for the deliveries. That girl Shayla told me she wouldn’t be able to do it today.” She seems like it takes every ounce of her willpower not to peer at my neck again. I hand the tulips to the two customer and they leave quickly after paying for the flowers. I open a drawer and look for the delivery list. It’s not there. I reach into my pockets and find nothing.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“I must’ve left it in my room.” I told her, glancing at the time on my phone. Flower shops’ rush hours (if you can even call it that) are in the morning before people go to work and in the evening when they’re going home. I have at least almost an hour before people start packing it in for the day and go home. “I will go back and get it. You stay here and sell some flowers for me.” With that, I rush out the door.

I hear her yell “I can’t!” after me but I’m already running.

 

\--

 

I totally forgot about the deliveries today. It’s a good thing there’re no deliveries scheduled before four. I need to hurry. Where are all the cabs when you need them?

 

\--

 

In the end, I just run all the way to my apartment. I arrive at my room at 3.34 pm. Where is it? I look at my desk. Not there. Around the kitchenette. No. In my bathroom. No. On my bed? Still no. Under the bed? No- Oh. Yes. I lie down and reach for the piece of paper. I may have dropped it while I was pulling on my clothes. I finally grab it, and in the moment I’m going to get up, a glint of something near the farther corner catches my eyes. I walk to the other side, lie down again, and pick it up. It’s a key. I don’t recognize it.

I don’t have time to figure it out right now, so I put it in my pocket with the delivery list and make for the door.

 

\--

 

When I get to the shop, panting my lungs out, Darlene’s already standing there over her bicycle. She snatches the list from my hand, looks at the flowers, and bikes away. I stand there in front of the shop for a little while, catching my breath, then turn around and push the front door open. The bell rings.

Tyrell Wellick looks up from the place behind the counter.

Oh.

When he sees that it’s me, he says, “Elliot,” and smiles.

I hurry to the counter. Darlene told him to wait here? “Good afternoon, Tyrell,” I say. “What would you like tod-”

His hand shoots out to touch my neck, tipping my chin up. “Who did this to you?” I reflexively yank away, but his grip is like iron. His hand is cool on my neck and Tyrell isn’t smiling anymore.

“It’s just me. I have an allergy and-”

“Don’t lie to me, Elliot.”

I’m surprised by his tone. It’s low and terrifyingly cold.

“Who did this to you?” He repeats. I get a feeling he doesn’t like to repeat himself.

“It’s me, really,” I say, because it’s the truth.

“Why did you scratch yourself until it got like this?”

I don’t answer him right away, but then Tyrell is being painfully patient and he’s still holding my neck in his hand and this is embarrassing as fuck but I don’t feel like I can avoid him anymore. “I… was at a club.”

Tyrell nods.

“There was this… man. I think he was really drunk, and he, uh, he tried to get my attention.”

There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.

I can’t look away from them. I continue, “but I was just trying to go home. I told him to leave me alone-” I swallow. I hope he doesn’t notice that my voice is trembling.

His thumb rubs at my pulse point soothingly, like I’m a wild animal that can run off anytime.

I open my mouth to talk again. “He then, uh, …kissed my neck.” As soon as I say that, Tyrell’s hand tightens for a bit and then he closes his eyes.

Well, he can’t even look at me after I told him that.

Perfect.

 

\--

 

Tyrell left not long after that. He didn’t even buy any flowers. I really shouldn’t have told him that, no matter how much the look on his face made me think for at least a second that he was truly concerned.

It doesn’t matter anyway. I go through the rest of today feeling a bit numb, but it’s all right.

\--

 

I can’t sleep again. After today’s running back and forth, I thought I’d sleep like a baby tonight. No such luck for me, it seems.

I turn onto my stomach and that’s when I hear the knock. I don’t think it’s on my door at first, but then whoever it is knocks again, louder, and now I’m sure it’s for me. I start to panic a little. No one should be knocking at my door at this hour.

Someone knocks again. Shitshitshitokay. I drag myself to the front door and look through the peephold. _Whatthefuck?_

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say after opening the door. Maybe I shouldn’t do that. Shit. But what if it’s an emergency? _But_ what kind of emergency would possibly bring him here? That’s stupid.

I move back. He shuts the door behind him. And locks it.

“Hello again, Elliot.”

Tyrell Wellick is standing in my room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrell is watching me.

Tyrell is watching me.

Since entering my room roughly thirty seconds ago, he hasn’t said a word. He just stands there, ruffled-looking, leaning back on my door, and watches. Me. He’s watching me. They are unnerving, those piercing blue orbs. I feel raw and kind of naked under his scrutiny. I wish he said something already.

“Elliot,” he finally calls, stepping closer. And closer. Three steps and there's less than an arm's length between us. Too close, but I don't know why I don't back away. Even though his face is unreadable, I can see a manic glint in his eyes. He tilts his head a bit to the side. "Elliot," he says again.

I just look at him.

His hand comes up and, hovering for a split second, rests on the side of my face, his little finger brushing the patch of skin just under my jaw. He leans in, his mouth barely touching the tip of my ear, and I wouldn't believe those words if they weren't said with such resolution.

"I killed him," he whispers.

I feel my eyes widen. It must look really comical and someone else in some other situations would laugh at me. Tyrell, however, just stands there, with his hand on my face and his eyes impossibly soft, like he's just told me about his newborn baby.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there, but now you don't have to worry anymore," he says, his face so close I lose focus of everything. All I see is blurry pale skin. I feel a light touch on my temple. "I'll take care of you." And then he moves away.

I still haven't said a single word when he whispers a tiny "bonsoir" and closes the door behind him.

 

(Somehow, having my own space back is not nearly as satisfying as I thought.)

 

\--

 

I heard a voice.

It was calling my name. I blinked, and its owner was looking at me expectantly. Of course, I knew who it belonged to. I’d remember it anywhere.

I was staring at him and he called me again, smiling a little. He told me to eat my breakfast, or else _it would get cold and you would complain again, Elliot._ I’d never complained about any food he made me. Not seriously, anyway. He knew. He was smiling, eyes crinkled at the corners now. I speared my sunny side up egg obediently.

He talked and I listened. About work and people and what an arrogant prick his boss really was. His voice made me think of a cool breeze. It slid through the air to you, caressing your ears. The wind changed. That was the nature of it, why it was beautiful. It could get rough and sharp and cut everything in its way to pieces.

Still, it usually stayed calm around me, and that was the comfort I could almost always rely on.

 

I was still hearing his voice when my phone woke me up.

 

\--

 

My chest ache for something lost. I wonder how I can even call it _lost_ when it’s never been mine.

 

\--

 

It’s three people already. The amount of people who said my color seemed better, that is. The first person was Angela, the florist whom I buy all the flowers from. I’m not the one growing all these stuffs myself, I thought you knew that, seeing as I live in a box and everything. Anyway, she’s a great person and knows so much about flowers and treats me like I’m a normal human being. We go far back. My father knew her mother. That was how we met.

 _Anyway_ , (man I’m easily distracted these days) she told me I looked better and that I should keep doing what I was doing. Well, I haven’t done anything, but I didn’t tell her that.

The second and the third person that commented about my seemingly healthier complexion were the customers. Well, the overall customers seem pretty less hostile than usual. The crocuses are especially beautiful today, so maybe that’s the reason.

Darlene is the fourth person. She doesn’t actually say that, but when I give her the list, she reaches across the counter and pats my cheek. “That’s better,” she says.

At exactly 4:47 pm—and I know that because I was staring at my cell phone—the bell rings, and, for some unknown reasons, I know who it is even before I look up.

“Good afternoon,” I greet him.

“Hi, Elliot,” he says, striding up gracefully to the counter, and puts his hands in his pants pockets like he belongs here. A figure like him should’ve looked distinctly out of place in a small flower shop. Tyrell’s managed to make everything he does seems natural while everything I do is just awkward. He looks at me. “You look better,” he remarks, looking unreasonably pleased.

“You’re the fifth person today.”

Tyrell quirks an eyebrow.

“Who told me that,” I continue.

He chuckles, “it’s the truth, Elliot.”

“Maybe. But people saying the same thing doesn’t necessarily make something a truth.” I said that because I didn’t know any appropriate respond to those words, and I felt like I needed to say something. Now I feel like a child just arguing for the sake of arguing.

“Not accepting the truth doesn’t make it go away either.”

I look away. “Hmm.”

Tyrell doesn’t say anything else. When I look back, his face remains cool as that of a marble statue, but I think I see _him_ anyway. It’s always his eyes that betray him. They’re clouded and stormy. I decide I don’t like it.

“I’m… feeling better,” I say.

His expression clears almost suddenly, a small smile coming back to his face. “I’m glad you are.”

There’s a weird feeling in my stomach.

I know it’s a dangerous thing to admit, I rarely allow myself to indulge in this kind of thinking. It's not healthy, but most of the things I've done can't be considered healthy. So fuck it. I think I can listen to his melodious voice forever. I’m feeling a little high.

“Thank you,” I say. He knows what it’s for.

He leans in, and I feel the words on my jaw, every alphabet sinking under my skin.

 

“Anything for you.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (So sorry for the slow update.)  
> (And really, really thank you everyone for reading this fic. It means a lot to me.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can still feel the weight of those words on my jaw.

I can still feel the weight of those words on my jaw.

I no longer dream of blinding lights and deafening noise. I sleep better. I don’t dream as much anymore, but when I do, it only ever revolves around one person. Those words are like an anchor. They help me stay in one place.

I don’t know whether that’s a good thing, but at least most of the times it makes me feel better, so I think that’s okay. They can stay. I don’t feel the need to scratch them all off.

Since that day, Tyrell has been coming to the shop more and more often. Two times a week. Three times. Every other day. He’d come in and just stand there, asking about my life, looking at me, and telling me how he wanted to get rid of his unintelligent dick of a boss in vivid details; mostly just being _Tyrell_.

He doesn’t buy as much flowers as he did and I’m surprisingly fine with that. It’s a strange thought, considering it indicates a huge drop in sales.

When he does buy them though, I always feel like shit afterward.

Those flowers remind me of the white gold ring and when I think about that white gold ring I usually feel the urge to go back to my room and sniff some white powder I hid inside a tin box in my top kitchen cupboard among the utensils and boxes of instant meals. I know, but if you aren’t really looking for it, you won’t notice anything.

In the case that I have no access to that thing because I’m at work, like I am now, my throat will start to close up and it’ll become harder to breathe. I hate moments like this. I hate it that I don’t know where I stand with him. I absolutely hate it when he comes too close and says things I’ve always wanted to hear. Even then, I can’t really say _no_ when he’s standing less than a feet away. I should, for my own sake, but sometimes I can’t even think rationally when he’s near. Tyrell has become an addiction I don't know how to quit.

I feel my eyes sting. Fuck. I shouldn’t think about Tyrell and whatever this all means. As if the occasional breakdown isn’t bad enough. Haha. I think I’m going to cry. Crying during work isn’t such a good idea though. I’ve learned that the hard way.

But I can’t go back to my room either. I can’t just suddenly leave the shop like this. I feel like shit but I can’t act irresponsibility every time I feel like crying like a loser. Life still goes on whether I like it or not.

Oh my god I can feel it bubbling up. Shitshitshitshitshitshit-

The front door’s bell rings, indicating a customer. I weigh between losing it right here in the middle of my goddamn flower shop and dashing into the safety inside the storeroom, risking getting all my money stolen.

I don’t have to look up to know who it is.

How funny it is that I can even remember his footsteps.

Tyrell is walking toward me, so I do the most logical thing I know: turn around and dart to the door leading to the shop’s storeroom. The door closed behind me faster than anything the man can say. I slide down to the floor in front of that door and clasp a hand tightly over my mouth. This is so stupid. He’ll know something’s wrong and he’s going to want to know it. I don’t even want to think about explaining all these weird fits to him, let alone actually executing it.

I try not to let any sobs out but crying silently is much harder than I thought. I can’t stop thinking about what I mean to him and the reason he’s doing all of this. Is this just for fun? Another distraction in the form of a freak selling flowers he buys to appease his wife or mistresses or who-the-fuck-ever I don’t even care.

 

(The sad truth is that I do care and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.)

 

\--

 

Some time passes. I don’t know how long, but at last I stand up, and, in hopes that there’ll be no one in the shop, open the door and walk back in.

Tyrell is standing there in front of the counter, his head down, seeming to be staring at his own hands. When he hears to sound of the door closing, his head snaps up, looking totally lost. I don’t know what to do. I ball my hands into fists, afraid that they’d reach out on their own.

Tyrell stares at me and then looks away, licking his bottom lip.

He seems unsure. I’ve never thought Tyrell’s capable of looking unsure.

Tyrell then looks back at me, and, slowly, steps closer. “Have I done something?” He asks, and then he lifts his hand up and it hovers just above my cheek. “May I?”

“Why are you doing this?” I ask him instead, willing my voice to sound as normal as I can. It still comes out more brittle than I hoped.

Tyrell’s hand falters. “Elliot.” He sounds pained, but what do I know? It’s my turn to look away. “Elliot,” he calls again, “may I touch you?”

Well, that gets my attention, and I’m tempted to just walk away right then. “You can’t do this, Tyrell.” I shake my head. “You’re married, for Christ’s sake!” I’m really glad there isn’t any customer in the shop. I’m really losing it. The shop’s reputation won’t get any better if a customer sees me like this, I’m sure.

Tyrell’s expression darkens. “Yes, I am,” his voice’s calm, “but I never care about… her.” He licks his lips again. “The marriage with her is nothing but a mistake.”

I stare at him, stunned and incredulous.

“The only person I’ve ever cared about is you.” Tyrell doesn’t stop his hand this time. He lifts it up and gently strokes the corner of my eye. It feels raw from crying. “I’m sorry.”

Tyrell’s eyes are soft when he’s looking at me. His hand shifts until his long fingers lightly graze the short hair at the back of my head, tilting my head, guiding it up.

“Do you trust me?”

I think this is the moment where I should state that I feel bad for her, whoever she is, and push him away.

I don’t feel like doing any of those things.

Something must be really wrong with me.

 

“I do.”

 

I close my eyes.

And his lips brush against mine.

 

It seems life can stop for a while when you’re kissing Tyrell Wellick.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! Thank you everybody who's still reading this fic. If there's any mistakes, whether it be spelling, grammar, or anything at all, feel free to point it out. Also, thank you for your kind words. They always make me smile and keep me going. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a weird feeling, kissing Tyrell.

 

So.

Tyrell kissed me.

It was a weird feeling, kissing Tyrell. I thought kissing him would be something like drowning alone in a dark ocean with him as my only source of air. In actuality, it was more like drowning _together_. We were both taking and giving at the same time. While our lips touched, he gave me something and I gave him something.

I kissed him.

It was also a wonderful feeling, kissing and being kissed by Tyrell.

When Shayla saw my face afterward, she smiled. “Well, what happened?” she asked teasingly.

That reminded me of _what happened_ and I felt the tug at the corners of my mouth. “Okayyy,” she crooned, pale green eyes sparkling. This is what I like about Shayla. She doesn’t push for an answer. She just said, “it’s good to see you smile, Elliot,” and I watched her walking back to her room with a little bounce in her step.

I walked into the bathroom and did a double take as I notice the man in the mirror.

All of this makes me feel really weird. When Tyrell left, with my heart pounding annoyingly loud in my chest, something foreign and familiar began to stir in my mind. I kept touching my lips and couldn’t stop thinking about the fragrance of the sea lavenders floating in the shop.

Now I’m lying on my bed, my mind numb from replaying this afternoon over and over. I feel really fucking high.

 

If mom were here, she'd scold me and say I was being too emotional. Darlene would use the word 'sappy'. I think I'm being disgustingly 'sappy', but hell.

I don’t even care.

 

\--

 

Summer is fast approaching. The air is getting warmer and warmer and I can see how that affects the spring flowers on the streets. Tulips don't go along well with high humidity. They don't look as cheerful as before. The peonies in that woman's garden also seem to droop a little in the warmer weather.

Angela's already waiting for me when I reach the shop.

"Good morning," I greet her, unlocking the shop's door, then hold it open for her. Some of the mascara on her eyelashes clumps together. She might hate me if I tell her that.

Angela thanks me and smiles, a bit wearily. Oh. She must haven't had enough sleep last night.

We carry all the flowers inside, and then I say, "your eyelashes look a bit off today."

She widens her eyes; her hand immediately shoots up and stops midair when it almost touches those eyelashes.

"Bathroom's that way." I point to the door behind the counter, and she hesitates for a millisecond before turning and walking quickly into the 'staff only' part of the shop. A faint _'oh shit'_ slips through the door.

When she comes back, her eyelashes are perfect. "Thanks, Elliot," she smiles gratefully. "That was bad. I slept through the alarm this morning so I did them in my car on my way here. You really just... saved my life."

I look up from the hollyhocks. "Don't mention it."

She smiles. Seems like she still doesn't hate me for telling her about her mascara mishap. We then move on to talk about flowers and my business plans for the coming summer.

"Anyway," she waves a dismissing gesture, "how about you? I feel like we haven't chatted like this in a while."

"I'm good. Thanks."

"Oh, come on, articulate."

“Um… things are going quite well,” I say, but when I see her face, I add, “I’ve got more sales.”

“Hmm.” Angela sighs. “How’s Tyrell, then? I haven’t heard you talk about him lately.”

I’ve never talked about Tyrell to _anyone_. I’m sure the confusion on my face is obvious.

“Oh.” That’s all she says. Her fist comes up and rest on her mouth. “I'm sorry, Elliot, but I have to go,” she says quickly without looking at me and strides toward the exit.

 

What was that?

 

\--

 

That night I find a Tyrell Wellick standing outside of my apartment door again. “Bonsoir,” he says then, walking into my room like he owns it, begins to loosen his tie.

"Hi," I say and shut the door. But before I can lock it, a hand grips my shoulder and turns me around. Another hand shoots up and holds my face in place. Then Tyrell is kissing me.

My knees buckle for a bit and then Tyrell’s pushing me against my front door, all the while kissing me fervently. This kiss is demanding and urgent and incredibly sinful. His tongue wipes everything out of my head. When I start to reciprocate, he hums low in his throat and sucks on my bottom lips insistently. I hear a deep groan and feel hot all over. I don’t know what’s happening. Tyrell keeps kissing me then pulls back and kisses me again over and over. I’m trapped between him and my apartment door but I don’t feel trapped. Shit. I feel good.

After some time, I start to feel like my mouth’s developed into an entity. Tyrell pulls back again and this time he stays there, keeping some distance between his red, swollen lips and mine. I unconsciously try to pull him in with my arms crossed behind his neck.

He smiles, then plants a kiss on my lips, lingering but chaste, and rests his head on my shoulder, his arms around me, those dirty blonde strands tickling the corner of my jaw. He inhales slowly.

“Elliot, you’re mine,” he mumbles into my neck. “You’re mine.”

I hug him, and stare into the silence of this small room.

I almost say something back.

 

\--

 

Tyrell winds up sleeping next to me in my narrow bed. I should feel weird about another person sleeping in the same bed. I don’t. His scent and heartbeat lull me to sleep faster than any drugs I've ever had.

 

\--

 

I freak out a little waking up, but then I feel the weight of an arm across my abdomen, and my breathing evens out.

I fall asleep again, and in the end, when we're finally awake, Tyrell and I are both really, really late for work.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* I'm so sorry for the slow update. School's been killing me lately._.)  
> Anyway, thank you again for every comment and kudos. I treasure them with all my heart. (*´v`*)o


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I automatically mumble a quiet ‘good morning’.

I blink my eyes open. Sometimes I wake up like that, going from unconsciousness to being aware of everything in an instant. The first thing my waking brain registers is the face looking down at me and the familiarity of it. I automatically mumble a quiet ‘good morning’ and he replies with the same words, smiling lightly.

“Although I feel like ‘good afternoon’ is more appropriate” is the next thing he says.

That’s when I finally notice the harsh light outside my apartment window.

“Shit.” I immediately spring up from the unusual warmth of my bed. Shit, shit, shit, the flower shop needs to be opened at six. I wake my phone from sleeping and it says 1:21 pm. You may think that it’s just a fucking flower shop. Late opening must not hurt that much, surely. Ha, no such luck. The customers must be-

“Elliot,” that voice calls, its owner grabbing my wrist. Tyrell’s hair is mussed from sleeping. “Don’t worry. Darlene’s been there since six thirty,” he says, and adds, “She called when she didn’t see you there this morning.”

“Oh.” Darlene’s a blessing. Despite all her objections to the shop’s duties, she does a good job dressing up a bouquet and can tolerate customers to some degree. “Okay.”

I try to look everywhere but at Tyrell. He’s barechested and suddenly I’m acutely aware that I’m wearing only a threadbare t-shirt and a pair of boxers. He’s still holding my wrist and looking up at me with softness around his eyes. “Um,” I start awkwardly.

“You need to go to work,” he says helpfully.

“Yeah.”

“But it’s only about five more hours until closing.”

“Five hours,” I say, “is not _only_.”

“It’s only a matter of perspective.” Tyrell stands up, towering over me, his hand still loosely around my wrist.

I don’t step away, and stare back at him. “Yeah, and I think I need to go.”

Tyrell’s quiet for several seconds. I feel his pale blue eyes studying me. Finally, he sighs, “Okay,” and sits back down. “Go, then.”

I look down at the spot where his hand connects with my wrist. Tyrell follows my line of sight. He lifts my wrist up, and— _shit_ —he bites it. I almost jerk my hand back.

Peering up from where his lips still linger over the redden skin, “Please come back,” he says, and releases my hand.

I look from his lips to my wrist and back at him again, then turned and start walking to the bathroom. It strikes me as a weird thing to say, what Tyrell’s said. Before I enter, I tilt my head a little to the left.

“Where would I go?”

 

 

When I get out of the bathroom, I find Tyrell standing in my little kitchen and gazing up at the topmost cupboard. …Has he seen _it_?

“Tyrell,” I call, and he seems to snap out of whatever reverie he’s in. He doesn’t say anything, just looking at me. “I’m going.”

He’s already in his yesterday’s suits. The wrinkled thing looks a bit out of place on his body. He comes to stand in front my apartment door and hands me my keys, wallet, and cell phone, all the while looking at me with cool, inscrutable eyes. “Thank you,” I murmur, and try to walk around him to get to the door. He moves to block the way.

What.

He closes his eyes.

Really.

I look at his long blond lashes and think about what to do. I think I know what to do. I just can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t believe Tyrell is really doing this.

The heat radiating from my face can be used to power this whole apartment.

As I’m debating with myself whether I should do it or not, Tyrell opens his eyes and smiles a little. “Say it if you don’t want it. Don’t do it if you don’t want to,” he says and looks away. Stepping aside, he opens the door for me.

Normally, Tyrell’s a pretty decent actor, but if you know where to look for it, that tiny bits of his true self is there for you to reach through the cracks and pull to the surface.

In my case, and this might come across as arrogant, but suddenly I can’t help thinking that he’s actually the one who puts his heart on a platter for me. ‘Do however you like with it, but please be gentle.’ is what he seems to say. That much power over someone is a bit overwhelming. And scary.

Tyrell’s little pained expression made me feel like I unintentionally abused that power.

Because it wasn’t like I didn’t want to. I was embarrassed. To be the one who initiates it seemed like actually admitting something, and being responsible for it. I was just too much of a coward.

“Tyrell,” I start, having no idea of what I should say, only some vague ideas of what I should do.

“It’s okay, Elliot. Don’t overthink it.” Tyrell puts his hand on the small of my back and steers me outside. “You have some work-”

“Tyrell-”

He won’t stop talking.

“-to do. It’s nearly two-”

“Tyrell-”

How do I make him stop.

“-o’clock. If you don’t hurry, you’ll-”

His speech is cut short by me pushing him against my closed apartment door and stealing every word after that directly from his mouth.

My heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest.

My hands on his chest tell me that his, too, is doing the same thing.

 

\--

 

When I arrive at the shop, Darlene is chatting pleasantly with a regular who’s holding a small cute bouquet of lively daffodils in her hands. “You should hire her permanently,” she says when I walk up to my place behind the counter. “I really like her style. Oh, not that yours is not good, but I just think hers is cuter.” I’ve actually asked Darlene about that many times before, but she refused every time I did because ‘apparently the customers are annoying’. I may have to ask her again with more persuasion.

While I’m checking today’s sales, the girl and Darlene talk for a bit more and then she says goodbye. “I have to go. See you next Thursday. Both of you.”

We wave her goodbyes. “She’s a nice girl,” Darlene turns to say to me. “The other customers aren’t all bad either.”

Darlene’s in a good mood. Good. “Will you reconsider the offer?”

“Hmm.” She pretends to think.

Before she can answer, however, the bell rings, and Tyrell walks in.

“Elliot, you dropped this,” he strides up to me and drops my keychain into my hand.

“Wow _,”_ she exclaims, and then, “long time no see, _Vice_ President.” Tyrell scowls. Darlene must have stressed the word ‘vice’ on purpose. Tyrell hates being reminded that he’s not the most powerful person in the company’s tech department.

Wait.

They may have talked this morning, but have they met before? “You know each other?”

“Fuck.” Darlene stares at me, her face stricken. “Fuck,” she mutters again and turns to look at Tyrell, then spins around and nearly runs into the white chrysanthemums on her way out. Tyrell sighs. Okay. What the fuck?

“I came here to drop your keys and now I must go,” he says before I can ask anything more. “And oh, I’ll take these.” He grabs a bouquet of mauve lavenders and puts a crisp hundred dollar bill on the counter. “See you later, Elliot.”

Tyrell walks away and I’m too stunned to stop him. The situation with Darlene looks familiar. First Angela, and now Darlene. Something’s strange. I look down at the money laid there beside the keychain and suddenly realize that there’s a key there that wasn’t there before.

It’s a key I found that day when I was looking for Darlene’s delivery list. I don’t know which door it opens, or how it ended up under my bed.

I will have to get a hold of Angela and talk to her later, but before that, finding where that door is may be the only thing I can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really sorry for the slow update, but it's finally here!  
> hope this chapter doesn't disappoint you so much;v;)9


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit. Think. Calm down. Inhale. Exhale. Think.

I need to calm down. Inhale. Exhale. Think. This key. Brass. Round. Expensive. Have I seen this key before? I feel like I’ve seen it, before I found it under my bed. Or not? Is this nagging feeling flickering at the edge of my mind there because this key looks familiar or because I made it look familiar? Shit. Think. Calm down. Inhale. Exhale. Think.

Is it a key to a box? A door? Probably a door. It’s too big to be a key to some mysterious wooden box. But then, it could be a very big box. A box in my room that I forget. Or a door somewhere I can’t remember.

I look under my bed again for confirmation that there’s no more long forgotten things hiding there. And nope. I glance at my phone’s screen again to make sure that there’s no missed call. Angela hasn’t answered her phone and she’s not calling me back. Maybe she’s busy. Probably. I open every drawer in the room and find nothing that I didn’t recognize already. Papers, files, cards, CDs. Nothing unfamiliar. Behind the bathroom mirror are pills, an unhygienic first aid kit, a tube of shaving cream, and a razor. Near Qwerty’s tank are some pieces of paper and several pellets of fish food. I feel my phone vibrate and pull it out so fast I almost throw it across the room. A stupid Facebook notification. Hmph. I swipe it away from the screen.

I search through my shelves, taking books out and putting them back in. I found some books I forgot I own, but that’s it. This is infuriating. The most infuriating thing isn’t that I can’t find where the key leads to, but it’s that I don’t even know if the key leads to anywhere at all. Of course, technically it leads somewhere. It’s a _key_. I’m just not sure whether it helps solve any mysteries surrounding my life right now. It might be just a key. An unimportant key. Tyrell found it and helpfully added it to the key ring. Maybe I’m wasting my time over nothing.

But it must be something. That shadow of something lurking at the corners of my eyes. I know it’s there but I can’t see it. I look through my kitchenette cupboards, from top to bottom. I need to materialize that shadow. Think. Where have I seen it before? An old-looking key that isn’t really that old. It still shines when the light catches it. If I find nothing here where should I go next? I don’t know where to begin. There is no clue. Nothing- Oh. I brush against something cool, metallic, _round_. It locates just in front of my white powder kit. As if it was placed there.

It’s a ring. Pale gold, classic, expensive.

I don’t realize that I’m shaking until I drop the ring. It falls to the thin carpeted floor with a small, quiet _thud_. I must have slid to the floor somehow because now I’m sitting on it. I feel like it’s getting harder to breathe. My mouth’s open but the air has become too thin—or my windpipe’s  too constricted—for me to gulp it in. _Breathe, Elliot. Breathe._ My vision begins to blur. _Breathe. Calm down. Inhale. Exhale. Shhh, just breathe._ I want to scream that I can’t, but that doesn’t come out either. I grasp the golden band tightly to my chest with my eyes screwed shut, trying to stop the trembling, trying to follow the voice. _Inhale. Exhale. Shhh, it’s okay. It’s okay._ I don’t know where that voice comes from, whether it’s mine or someone else’s, reality or just inside my head. I really, really don’t know.

But it helps. I feel less lightheaded and more air graces my lungs.

There’s one thing I know though. I clench my fist, grab the key.

And I run.

 

 

I run and I’m thinking too many things and focus on nothing. _Shitshitshit._ The streets are blurring together, but I still know which corner to turn and which street to cross. The horns are blaring at me, but I keep on running and running and running. I can’t stop now.

Then I stop, and I am in front of an average-looking door with glass front and wooden frame, and open the hand that’s clasping around the key. The door’s locked, I know it. I push the key into the keyhole, turn it, and it yields with a _click_.

My heart rate skyrockets as I try to compose myself. I feel like a piece of shit. The door’s opened now, but I can’t seem to walk in.

I stand there, wanting so bad to go in—needing to enter the house—but too scared to actually do it. Truth can be really terrifying when you’ve been living in ignorance for a long time.

I’m frozen there, like a stupid fuck, and then I see his shadow.

And then he’s standing in front of me.

“Hey,” he says it with a tenderness that makes my chest hollow. The pain in his eyes rips me to shreds.

I wipe at my eyes. I fucked up. I really, really fucked up.

“Bonsoir, Elliot,” he greets me with an outstretched hand.

 

 

Tyrell leads me inside the place, holding onto my hand. The first thing that hits me is the smell of statices. They’re on the counter, the coffee table, the stairs—everywhere. I have always favored the flower the most because of its meaning. But oh, the irony.

He sits down on the sofa and tugs at my hand. I lower myself down next to him. Still holding hands, we say nothing. The silence is crushing me. I think of things to say, but none comes out.

Then Tyrell—always Tyrell—inhales deeply and says, “It’s okay. Everything’s okay, Elliot.” He doesn’t say that as a question, but the misery and uncertainty in his eyes drive me to say the next sentence.

“I remember now,” I whisper.

Tyrell stares at me, and then his face crumples and it is like a knife to my gut. I pull him to me. “I’m sorry," I say fiercely. " _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry,”_ I keep repeating those words over and over, but the wetness on my shoulder is already there. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t mean for him to be stuck with a defect like me, but I don’t have the courage to say it.

“It’s okay, Elliot,” Tyrell breaks my train of thought. He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes red-rimmed. “In the end, you always remember.”

In the end, I always hurt Tyrell.

The memories are getting clearer. Tyrell has no wife. I create her almost every time I slip because I see the gold ring on his finger. He didn’t play along the first couple of times, trying to tell me the truth, to help me remember, but it only resulted in me denying him even more or shutting away completely. It was a long time, longer than this time (and this time _is_ long, given how far I’ve come in my treatment), before I recalled who I am and found what I’d done to him.

I had really wanted to die then, and I would probably have, if it wasn’t for the thought of how much pain it would have caused him.

After that, I went to several doctors. Psychiatrists and neurologists. Did several tests. And in the end all I got were some meds and advice to _be patient_. Sure, the slip is getting less frequent, but it hasn’t disappeared completely.

Every time I can only hope that it’s the last time.

I’m pulled back to the present by Tyrell tapping against my left fist. I look down at it, look up at him, and open my hand. There lies the ring.

Tyrell picks it up, kisses me softly, and gives me a small, heartfelt smile. I wish this could last forever. This moment of relief and remembrance. His icy blue orbs are warm and soft. He lifts my left hand and slides the pale ring on the _finger_.

“Marry me again, Elliot?”

Tyrell is always there, waiting for me, doing this for me, and keeps giving me everything.

I always hurt him. But I also love him too much to let him go.

And I keep saying, “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends.  
> Thank you for sticking with me to the end. Thank you for all the kudos and comments. Trust me when I say this: I wouldn't be able to make it this far without you guys. This is my first multi-chaptered fic and yeah it's not that long really, but I'm really not a disciplined person. Anyway, you're the best.  
> Thank you so much. x
> 
> (p.s. I think this chapter may be too OOC, and I'm really sorry for that.)


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